


what's in a name?

by pureseasalt



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, Modern Era, Slow Burn, and his royal guards are bad at parenting, does this count as a slow burn if there's nothing to burn?, god i hope this makes sense, i will hold anyone who hurts komugi at gun point, meruem is an overachieving eleven year old boy, my pussy is BIG and no one dies here!, no burn, not beta read bc im a coward, who are also his siblings in this universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26834524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureseasalt/pseuds/pureseasalt
Summary: She has nothing on him. The nameless eleven year old boy who has too many names.(Monster, Beast, and King— courtesy of the kids at the park.)He has nothing on her. The eleven year old girl whose only one name packs quite the punch.(Komugi, Gungi Master.)
Relationships: Komugi & Meruem (Hunter X Hunter), Komugi/Meruem
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

His cereal was getting soggy. The spoon hanging between his fingers continues its monotonous task of scooping and pouring and scooping and pouring of the now discolored milk. And, after ruling it unworthy sustenance, he huffs out, pushing it aside to sit idle on the dining table.

Youpi ruffles his hair. “Let’s have the cook whip up something else for ‘ya," he yawns as he hulks through the kitchen; the rumble of his voice reaching even the child’s smaller chest when he greets everyone with a guttural _good mornin’_. 

The mushy purple, pink, and brown wafers drowning inside the bowl aren’t objects that inspire deep introspection, he finds. Not that something should be introspected about. Nothing's bothering him. It’s just that he’s debating whether the thing is important enough to share with his siblings. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

He can’t help the heavy sigh that escapes him now. It’s always Pouf who makes everything unnecessarily grave. He knows, too, that he doesn’t stand a chance at keeping it to himself as soon as he walked into the dining room still in his pajamas; waffles, eggs, and bacon ignored for one of the large boxes of cereals inside the pantry. That Pouf is reaching out to caress his hand also means that there’s no other way out but to “talk about his feelings”. 

(Lord knows he can’t have Pouf crying about not being close enough and not being able to keep his promises to their late mother. _Again_.)

(Especially the solo pieces. He _absolutely_ cannot compose another one of those and have it lauded as a modern masterpiece and when an interviewer asks him about it — of course, _of course_ he’s going to say, “To my dearest brother. The light of my life. The oasis to the desert that is my life. To the hope that my music reaches his heart in the way that my words cannot—” and some such other dramatics.)

But it’s worse, now. He knows that it is imperative that he speaks about it because their eldest sibling is taking their eyes away from the papers they had spread across the table, stacking and organizing the files as they take a sip of their coffee. 

Pitou is looking now. 

Such inconvenience. And so early, too. 

He juts out his chin. “The kids hailed me their king yesterday,” he proclaims. Taking a seat back as he folds his arms together, he adds, “More than half of them, actually. They started calling me ‘King’ after they challenged me to arm wrestling.”

Silence, first. Then, laughter: thundering across the entire house that he's sure it's even waking up the neighbors miles apart from their property. Youpi takes the chair beside him, legs spread and colossal arms resting atop its back. “Learned from the best didn’tcha?!” 

His bellowing amusement doesn’t subside, snatching the forgotten bowl of cereal from the table and finishing it himself with a broad smile. The worry that had Pouf’s immaculate face creasing also softens into relief as he smirks. “As they should,” he says. His brother is almost glowing, puffing out his chest as he pours himself another cup of tea. 

“Last Saturday it was ‘monster’. The week after that, it was ‘beast’. Either way, they can never pronounce it properly,” he deems safe to add that bit. And to a satisfactory result. He knows that opening with the more savory term would lessen the chances of those children's lives being ruined. That of their parents’, at least. 

The dark cloud of unease is lifting now, courtesy of Pouf who is finally chattering on about how the title the kids bestowed upon him fits him like a glove or, in this case, a gold-dipped crown. “Children aren't so different, are they? They can already recognize their betters and act accordingly. After all, they’re just tinier, more obnoxious adults,” he snorts. “ _Except_ for you, darling.”

He doesn’t say anything about this. It goes without saying that he is, in every sense of the word, _better_ than those brats. And at the end of the day, he is the best of them all. He knows this. So there really is no problem. It’s just Pouf mother-henning him at every breath, putting words in his mouth when there isn't even anything to worry about. 

“What is it that’s bothering you, then?” Pitou speaks out. 

A “tsk” leaves him. For the nth time, he wants to assert, there is _no_ problem. Still, he chooses not to say that. His siblings would not understand the nuance of the situation anyway. He throws them a question to ponder over, enough to push them off his back.

“I suppose,” he begins, “I don’t know which one is more acceptable.” 

That should do it. 

Contemplative silence fills the room. Youpi decides it’s as good a time as any to finish the long overdue cereal. And when he searches his older brother for an answer, Youpi halts the spoon from entering his mouth and simply shrugs. 

“Well, I call you my ‘little king’ sometimes and I don’t see why you shouldn’t like it when others do the same. Why, don’t _you_ like it?” Youpi bites his lower lip. A sign of distress. He replies only for damage control. “I don’t mind,” he tells him. 

“It shouldn’t matter,” Pitou says. They place their mug next to their empty plate and call for the housekeeper to clean up the table. “You can decide for yourself which one you prefer. Monster, beast, king. Whatever. It is human behavior to fear or abhor or deify what they do not understand.”

They kneel down to fold the edges of his pajama pants that hover too closely to the floor. 

“And you, my _little king_ ,” they grin, glancing towards Pouf, who harrumphs in return. “You are unlike anyone they’ve ever met.”

He doesn’t bother looking up when Pitou stands. They sling a brown leather bag on their shoulder and, before leaving, he feels their palm press lightly on his cheek.

“Not everyone can be as perfect as you are,” he hears them say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls cry w/ me at the comments below i need to cope. cant believe togashi did us like that.


	2. Chapter 2

The birds are especially excited today. 

How curious. Komugi wonders what it is about today, compared to any other day, that makes it so special. 

They're chirp, chirruping along the rustling leaves above, joining the yells and thrilled shrieks of the kids outside as they start the day with another game of tag. 

She smiles, letting the balmy heat cuddle her like a soft, downy blanket. The rushing tap to her left is just as soothing, telling her that mama is just beginning to water the plants at this part of the shop. Making her way towards the sink, she touches the dry ceramic until she feels liquid flow to the drain, pleasantly cold to her fingertips. She closes the faucet before grabbing the slim handle of the watering pot.

Humming a tune that never loses its charm, she kneels down to water the plants; those in front of the sliding door first, always, because mama has the habit of being stingy with compliments and Komugi can’t have that in this house. "My, how pretty you look today, Madam Evergreen,” she whispers. She proceeds to the ones on the other side. And even though it is them who often get mama’s praises, Komugi still says, “Perfect, perfect, Sir Snake. And you, too, Miss Snake” as she pets their thick, waxy leaves. 

"Thank you, Komugi!" Her mama catches her breath; she must’ve gotten distracted while arranging the flowers up front. "Gosh, I must be getting old."

Komugi hears her snicker. "But I did beat you this time! While you were drooling the day away, I was already up before the sun!" 

"Good morning, mama," she giggles. "I think I just had the most awesomest dream!" 

"Hm?" Mama moves in her direction, kissing her on the forehead and taking the watering pot away; her calloused hand parts her hair, fluffy bands tickling her ears as she tames the wild strands into a pigtail. "Another gungi strategy, I bet." 

"Yes but this one's different from all the rest! Say, mama, do you remember the-" 

Little feet, even smaller than hers, pad furiously on the wooden floor. Though the owner's light frame usually doesn't cause this much noise, the heaviness that it has this morning warns Komugi that her brother has gotten himself into quite a pickle. 

"Komugi!" 

Sweaty and heaving, Hikaru suffocates her in a tight, desperate hug. Mama rains on him with a thorough scolding, even mentioning the unfinished plate he left on the table

"You wasted your breakfast again!" 

“Mama, I swear! Later! I’ll eat it all later, but Komugi-” he draws out her name, worrying Komugi that his problem is really serious indeed. “I don’t know why he’s early! He’s here! And he’s gonna kill me!”

Of course, their mama was furious at first; threatening to meet the parents of this bully at once, right this very moment, or else she’ll bust their door open, but when her brother stops her, insisting that this must be settled between men, that letting an adult answer for him would mean admitting defeat to the King, mama suddenly laughs.

“Oh! You mean _that_ boy!”

She bids them off with a reminder to be careful. Frankly, Komugi understands none of what her brother said, just that she absolutely must beat the Monster Beast King (she didn’t get that one either; Hikaru kept switching between titles) in gungi or the kids would ban him from stepping into the park. _Forever_. 

“That’s incredible, Hikaru! You actually lost?” This Beast King Monster must be very good, then! “But you’re unbeatable,” she gasps. 

“Well, not to _you_ ,” he breathes, holding her in place to wipe the snot away from her nose. “I told him that I have a gungi champion sister and he said that even champions aren’t _invisible_ or whatever,” he mocks. “You show that guy, Komugi!”

But show him what exactly, she doesn’t know, and she’s too embarrassed to ask further when they finally got there. Komugi knows that he must beat him, but she doesn’t think she has that much of a chance against someone smart enough to defeat her brother. 

And even Netero! 

“Damned kid had me beat at checkers,” he grunts. “Kick his ass, Komugi-chan!” 

“Messing with the kids, are you? You old fart,” she hears the Zoldyck grandfather spit out. He wasn’t as friendly as Netero, or the other elderly now that she thinks about it, but he always helps Komugi feed the fishes at the koi pond and mama likes it when he buys from their shop because he always tells his relatives (“ _Butlers_ , Komugi,” mama corrected her once) to buy the big bouquets. 

“Not just checkers, too. Chess, Shogi, Go— that boy even told you that in your great advancing age you should be in bed answering crosswords,” he cackles, a sharp sound that gets remarkably louder as they jog away from the benches they were sitting on. 

The King Beast Monster is _that_ good, huh. Komugi feels her heart clench. Her enemy is strong and intelligent and talented in everything he does. Board games or sports, as Hikaru tells her, he always comes out the victor. And what about her? What does she have against someone like him?

Touching the gungi board before her, the smooth, polished wood and the circular pieces placed disorderly atop it, her stuttering heart steadies into a gentle thump- thump- thump. That’s right, she thinks. Granted, she may not be at his level (she can never be), but she gets the feeling that everything will be alright. Just like every battle she’s ever fought. 

Besides, she realizes when she feels him before he speaks, this is no Monster nor Beast nor King that she’s fighting. The gravel beneath his shoes crunch ever so slightly as he makes his way towards them. Hikaru yells out insults and she has to stammer out that he should be nice even to people he doesn’t like. 

“Is this her?” He ignores her brother, voice cool and unbothered; the lightning she feels in her mouth everytime she chews on fresh mint. “Let’s make this fast.”

“O-okay!” She blurts out, anticipation in her belly at the face of this new formidable foe. He closes the space between them, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. “I already prepared my troops! But, if you will,” she says, “can you please announce your moves for me?”

“Wait. _You-_ ," he hisses. "You’re _blind_.” 

Hikaru rises beside her, and Komugi is all too familiar with the blood rushing to his ears when he jumps to her defense, so she tugs at his shirt, anchoring him back to her. This one means no harm. 

"Uh-huh," she tells him. "You don't mind if I keep my eyes open do you?" 

He scoffs. "Do whatever you want." 

And so she does.

“4-4-1,” Komugi starts. “Pawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anw, i will die for komugi


	3. Chapter 3

Winning runs in his veins, he believes. People— his mentors, classmates, and even those who claimed they hated him— all say, at some point, that they could only wish to have that much faith in themselves whenever he accepts any challenge thrown his way (or even when no one does and he just feels like being great at another thing). Because when they tell him to stop, that he’s not ready yet, that he’s but a novice and his opponent too strong, he would only head forward and prove them wrong. 

_Faith_.

He has to laugh.

Faith is running into a precipice with all the imbecilic optimism of a drunkard who leaps with the belief that they wouldn’t end with a pair of cracked lips. That is not what he has for himself. There is no misguided delusion involved in his proclivity to excel. Early in his life but he knows that winning is part and parcel to who he is.

Eyebrows only start raising at his statement that he’d been born to win because they do not know— and he would tell people this if only those he’d first told it to hadn’t reacted in such a way, that his birth in of itself was already a battle won. When he cried his way out of his mother’s womb, tearing her frail body apart until she’d begged for the pain to stop (but it didn’t, Pitou said) and so she had no choice but to die, he’d already cemented the _fact_ that winning is just who he is. With his mother’s blood on his hands, fingers small as grain. 

Winning to him is as natural as breathing. 

So he admits that he’s a little bit lost right now.

“ _Stop_ ,” he grits out. “That’s already a checkmate.”

It takes him a long time to study the pieces before him. When the girl’s brother stands up with a fevered howl, yelling nonsense like “King’s dead!” and “King’s dead!”, he expects the sister to follow suit. But, when he’s finally come to, mind clearer and rational, he still sees her there with a big, dopey grin on her ugly, snotty face. 

“You’re amazing!” A bubble of mucus comes out of her nose as she beams, almost hitting the board away when she flails her hands in excitement had he not moved it out of her way. 

“Well, _you’re_ disgusting,” he counters. 

He lost. He _really_ lost. And to a brat like her!

She doesn’t even look offended; dumb as she is the insult has probably gone over her head. Instead, she yanks out a towel from the pocket of her skirt and blows her nose in a loudly annoying way. 

“You started with a simple formation.” His tone is accusatory even to his ears and it’s irritating that he sounds like a spoiled boy deprived of his sweets. He’s not one of those kids! 

Losing, it turns out, is like an itch that can only be scratched once he’s redeemed himself and leaves this bumbling girl in the dust. “Explain yourself.”

She puts a finger on her chin. “Simple? _Simple_ , hm? Yes, of course! You’re a genius, after all!” Giggle rushes from her lips, like tinkling bells at the passing of fresh breeze. “But it wasn’t simple at all, I think! See here: it took me a long time to move the Knight to where she is now.”

“Unless you predicted all of my moves.”

“Why would I do that?” Tilting her head to the side, she asks again. “Predict? That seems really, _really_ hard,” she frowns. 

Never taking her gaze away from him, the girl arranges the pieces on the board with a precision that startles him, something that he does not expect from someone as clumsy as her. “I just had to do this,” she moves the Spy. “And, um, when you did this,” she stacks the Archer. 

_Enough_. “I get it,” he grumbles. 

She hums as she clears her end of the board. A motion that has his stomach sinking; the acrid taste of it, as if he's lost something very important, pushing him to sit up and stand from the bench. 

_No, this can't be over._

He slams a palm on the lacquered surface. “Another round!” Heat rushes to his cheeks. The girl stops. She stops and she smiles. 

(Like when he opens his thick curtains in the morning and the sun floods his room with staggering light.)

“Of course,” she says. 

They play again. This time he resolves to make this girl fall to his knees, paying attention to her in a way that he has foolishly not at the first try. Perhaps if he did he would’ve defeated her in one fell swoop. That’s why as she begins with her Knight, he supposes it is only right that he holds his breath, pausing to soak in the vision in front of him. 

He wants to tell her off for that bad posture, but not like how Pouf does it where he brushes his shoulder blades and subtly straightens his back. No, he wants to shout at her. To reprimand her for looking gross and unsightly and weird for that tranquil look in her eyes that cannot even see; and for holding her head up high like that, for that smooth glide of her arms as she maneuvers her pieces, like she’s a queen brandishing a sword. 

Everything about her is just so _wrong_. 

“Oi,” he says. “Wipe your nose.”

The spell is gone. She scrambles for her towel, forcing him to sigh as he reaches for the filthy thing himself and places it back in her fingers. A muffled “Thank you” comes his way. 

He doesn’t check his wrist watch, nor does he make a point of minding the time that slowly ticks by. No point to it if he knows victory is almost his. He's _sure_ of it. 

But then the girl perks up in the middle of his General’s capture. 

“By the way! Can you tell your friends to stop bullying Hikaru?” A wrinkle forms between her thick brows. “Since I already beat you. He told me earlier that they told him that he can’t come to the park anymore if we lose.”

“Take that to them. I know nothing of their trivial matters,” he mutters, focusing intently on the Samurai at a distance from his Musketeer, and then announcing its position as he moves it closer. 

“Trif- trit- tirvyal?” She makes a move.

“ _Trivial_ ,” he corrects. “I don’t know anything about it because I don’t _care_ about it. So why should I do something about it? Fortress 5-2-3.” 

“But that’s- Cannon 6-3-4-,” she says, voice pitching upwards. “You’re their King!” 

Looking back, he thinks that that was the moment that decided his fate. 

Maybe “So you’re an idiot, too?” had not been the correct answer. Or maybe it was. Who knows how that ordeal could have ended had he not said it. This much he knows, though: the girl had been going easy on him. 

“Checkmate,” she announces, doing it herself this time. He doesn’t say anything, just grasping his pieces with a tight fist and then letting them fall one by one until they’re all lying scattered back on the board. “That was fast.” He does not know if she hears this. The words slip from him as swiftly and quietly as she’d backed him to a corner, surrounding the King with her troops. 

He wants to gnash his teeth. “Again—”

“There you are.”

Still in his sweatpants and no doubt has driven from the gym, Youpi stands behind them with his hands pushed inside his pockets. “Pouf’s nagging again. Did you forget to eat lunch?” 

“I might have,” he says, reverting his concentration back to the enemy, who makes for the cane sitting beside her. “Don’t go. It’s just my brother."

“Who’s this?” Youpi stalks closer.

He turns to face him completely, his small body hiding the girl he’d been fighting. “No one.”

His brother freezes in place. The sound of shouting reaches their ears, resounding to the empty space in front as children run towards the plaza, a throng of them hollering “It’s Youpi the Centaur! He’s here! He’s here!”. 

Familiar faces light up at the sight of him and Youpi together, distracting him from the group of adults trailing at the rear. He walks away from the table to stand next to his brother. 

“Whoa! Do you know him?” A boy much taller than him exhales out. His eyes widen and the other kids enclose around them, gawking at the giant of a man.

Seeing no point in lying, he says, “Yeah.”

“Youpi the Centaur! Youpi the Centaur!” chants the crowd of pre pubescents. 

The few adults who’d probably caught on to the news that a world-renowned wrestler is loitering the humdrum town hold their children by the collar, taking their place closer to the star. 

Like a time bomb, he sees each request for an autograph or a picture or a demonstration of his famous one-hit knockout move drive him towards the edge, his brother preparing to detonate. Not waiting for the tell-tale tick of annoyance on his forehead, he clasps his hand, halting Youpi from making another scandal-inducing mistake. 

“Leave my brother alone,” he says; a necessity, he thinks, if he doesn’t want their house to be bombarded by camera-wielding low-lives who would await at their gates, pressing Youpi, or any of his family for that matter, for a comment regarding his bad public behavior. 

“ _Brother_ ,” The kids parrot back. “That’s why you’re The King, man!” Another tells him. 

A boy, who he feels like he’s seen before, pipes up. “We were waiting for you! The guys at the field are already playing soccer. They still didn’t believe us when we said they’ll run home crying! Ha-Ha!” 

This seems to please Youpi, now entertaining the kids’ pestering as they tell him of his many triumphs. “My car’s at the parking lot,” Youpi tells him, hands on a marker hanging above someone’s back, after he expresses his impatience to leave the place. 

He doesn’t waste time, knowing that the girl has gone immediately as the people came in droves. 

He walks briskly. 

To the garden with trees that seem to whisper hurry, hurry, hurry, _hurry_. To the park that she wants his dumb brother to keep playing in. To the quaint flower shop in front that’s painted a bright shade of yellow. 

He stops, choosing to stare at the girl cradling a basket of daisies, the cloud of flowers nuzzling her face. He sees her shout, "I'll bring it inside, mama!" as she sings that stupid tune again.

Apparently, the ugly, snotty gungi master lives here. 

“Hey,” he calls out. She turns in his direction, surprised. “Why’d you leave?” He demands.

The girl sniffs. “I thought you didn’t wanna play anymore?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of her head as a radiant shade of pink dusts her face. “Did you know,” she moves forward, disturbing the daisies inside the basket. Then, hushing as if letting him on a secret, she continues, “I forgot to ask your name.” 

(The petals were as white as her hair.)

“I think Monster Beast King is a bit too long, don’t you?” She asks.

“Then just pick one,” he tells her noncommittally. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

(Go on. Monster. Beast. King. Which is it?)

“But that’s not your name, though,” she whines. And suddenly he wants to rip his chest open. What with the blood-pumping organ beneath seemingly having a lot of trouble staying in place, jumping around to the beat of a great drum. 

His mouth, too, he should rip out. Because he finds himself asking, “What about you?”

She hums, confused. 

“What’s your name?” He repeats, a lump in his throat.

A flower flits to the ground. He steps closer to pick it up.

“Komugi,” she tells him, a name that packs quite a punch for something that’s delicately said, gracing him with a smile as he places a single daisy between her fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meruem is the most annoying 11 yr old and i love him for it


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re going out?” Komugi hears her mama ask. “This early?”

She folds the fresh towel into a neat square, with four even corners and no side longer than the others. Fragile, spindly stalks tease her nose, making Komugi declare that yes, indeed, just like yesterday, this day, too, holds a gift for her. Another wonderful gungi dream and an equally wonderful gungi opponent. She must have been extra good during the past few weeks for her to be rewarded like this. 

“There’s a butterfly on your nose, Komugi!” Mama exclaims, the amusement making her voice bright. She lets it rest there for a few minutes, its fluttering wings brushing her eyelashes before deciding to fly away. Mama’s fingers replace it. “Be back before twelve, my flower,” she tells her, pinching her small nose. 

It is no surprise that she makes it to the plaza before he does, her nameless gungi foe. She doesn’t really understand why he can’t tell her, though. King Monster Beast _really_ is hard to say all the time. And it just strikes her as odd that she doesn’t know what to call him. They’re going to play for ever and ever, right? How funny it is that he knows that she's Komugi but she only has "Monster" or "Beast" or "King" to go with. 

But, even without knowing who he is (or _what_ he is, she thinks with a giggle), right now, this moment still tastes a lot like soda: the knowledge that she's the first to sit on this bench today, and that she's waiting for someone so magnificent, so awesome, so _extraordinary_ that he always finds a way to meet her, gungi piece per gungi piece. 

It electrifies her senses with its ice cold sweetness, the battles she's going to have, making every part of her fizzle and sparkle until it's almost impossible to contain, until she's whistling a jumpy ditty and her feet are dancing along to it.

Though, she pauses, Komugi hopes this time he tells his friends to stop fighting Hikaru. She thinks back to yesterday with pursed lips. That was very mean of him. 

“Who’s mean?” 

Komugi straightens her back, grinning so wide she can feel her cheeks aching. She wants to leap and pump her fists, but ultimately decides against it when she hears him take his place on the bench before her. Instead, she welcomes him with something wonderful.

“Hey, hey, guess what,” Komugi touches the table and presses herself closer. “Guess _what!_ ”

He sighs. “What?” He asks, opening the lid that keeps the gungi pieces and placing them on the board.

“I think I know what the dreams are telling me now! About the King and the Spy!”

Komugi thinks she hears a laugh, a tiny, almost quiet laugh, but she can’t be sure. 

“You sleep thinking about gungi?” 

“Think? It’s a _dream,_ silly,” she giggles. “And it’s the best gungi dream I’ve ever had in my entire life!” She spreads her arms. “I’m so close to getting it and I’m sure that if I keep playing with you, I’ll finally understand it; _truly_ understand it.”

He puts his final gungi piece down. “Let’s start, then.”

They take turns dictating the position of their troops as Komugi arranges hers. Then, the birds stop singing, and everything else: playing children, swaying grass, cars driving slowly— all of it is drowning in the sound of her own breathing. 

“You hid your King,” she whispers, reverent and careful, as if carrying a sheet of thin glass. 

The Monster Beast King snickers. “I call it remote concealment,” he says, pride in his voice.

A tingle traces her spine, almost making her shake. _Amazing_. He really is something else. 

Komugi wonders if she’s still dreaming. That if, maybe, this is some cruel scheme of the gods above, where they decide to let her experience a little bit of heaven, only to snatch it away from her, revealing that, this entire time, it’s all been nothing but the creation of her overactive imagination. “You have the most creative mind I know, Komugi,” mama told her before.What if this is some punishment? The gods’ way of teaching her a lesson. Because she’s had more conversations with these pieces than with real, actual people. Because it’s just a game, Komugi, it has no mouth, no eyes, no heart. Or perhaps, and this one, too, is likely— because she’s wished for too much.

(You don’t deserve this, Komugi.)

“Your move?” Her opponent presses on. 

“I-I’m sorry!” Komugi babbles. “1-9-3 Archer,” she announces. A three-pronged attack with its left flank moving forward. He can attack that side, crush it before it reaches his King, but this will cost her opponent two pieces and, eventually, create an opening for Komugi. 

He won’t do that, though. She knows he won’t.

Because he wants to isolate her King; to separate it from her troops and kill it off. 

He will attack the center.

“2-9-1 Knight,” he announces, brimming with life and just shy away from shouting. 

A smile, but a not so happy one, makes its way to her lips. How long has it been, she wonders. Probably not _that_ long. It only happened a year ago, after all. Yet it feels as if it had made a home deep in her bones, forming its family within the cavities, causing it to weigh heavier than it should be for someone as young as she. Komugi feels her breath hitch. 

Who knew that this sweet dream can have such a bitter aftertaste. 

Komugi knows that she _can_ let him win. Move her troops here and there and he’d win this game as easy as he usually does with his other battles— but, she pauses, that just doesn’t seem right, does it?

She feels for the piece with her right hand, caressing it in her palm. 

“9-2-1 New Lieutenant General.” 

He stands this time. The bench he’s sitting on grating down the asphalt. 

“How?!” The Monster Beast King roars. “I was- The King was-”

“Kokoriko,” Komugi mutters. “That is the name of your strategy.”

“No. _No_ , it isn’t. I’ve studied this game. There’s no strategy like that.”

It pricks her, as if it’s a flower that seems like the softest thing in the world only for it to cut her as soon as her fingers wander to its stem. A pain that jolts her body backwards. Yes, of course. The boy couldn’t have read about it. 

“The thing is,” she clears her throat, “it was removed from the official list of strategies.” Komugi feels her face burning, so she hastily adds, “B-but believe me it _is_ called Kokoriko! Because- because I- I was the one who made it.”

“You,” he whispers. 

“Yes and, well, the next thing I knew, someone else was using it against me,” she says, remembering that rainy afternoon and the deafening clap of thunder. “So I had to come up with something to win.”

Komugi hears him sit down and she fears that she might have ruined something. But she just can’t seem to stop. “I was really, very happy when you used it. I thought, wow, someone like you- you’re using my strategy. _Mine_. And that’s what I felt, too, when I made it.”

He doesn’t say anything, the faint howling of wind answering for him instead, and yet Komugi knows that he’s listening. So she continues.

“Everyone thought that-” she stops, feeling her voice strain. “For the first time, everyone thought that I was,” Komugi breathes, “-that I was _amazing._ And, for just a little bit, even I thought that I was... amazing.” 

And that had been the part that really hurt, she thinks. Because no matter how many tournaments she’d won, it was only when everyone told her, “Congratulations, Komugi! That’s one for the books!” and “You made history, Komugi!” that she _knew_ that she was, finally, great at something. Not just the weird sister. Not just the girl who happens to be _just_ _good_ at gungi and nothing else. A gungi _master_. That’s what she was. 

Komugi, The Gungi Master. 

Exceptional and daring and _amazing._

“But I had to kill it,” she said. Like sea waves that disappeared as fast as she’d captured it. Maybe she hadn’t really been amazing, after all.

The silence expands, swelling to a point where Komugi feels like breaking it again, just to fill up the awkward emptiness with something, anything. And, thankfully, he does it before she can try. 

“Idiots,” he says with that familiar scoff. “The lot of them. _Idiots."_

“Wha—”

“If it takes them some measly strategy to see how freakishly amazing you are, then they’re idiots. You, too, an idiot.” He’s angry, Komugi now realizes. “Are you blind?!”

What a strange question.

“Well, yeah-”

“ _Shut up,"_ he stands. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

The boy seems to be intent on actually leaving now, and Komugi feels her heart pick up. Did she do something wrong? Should she not have said it?

“Wait,” she cries, patting the bench for her cane, panic making her forget what her body already knows: that it’s always, _always_ on her left. “Wait!” 

Apparently, panic makes one forget their senses too, because, as she desperately moves and prepares to break into a frantic walk, she feels hands, warm and soft, wrapping around on both sides of her shoulders, keeping her from tripping. 

“Forget it,” the boy tells her. 

And then he’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! i never thought writing komugi would be this hard?? i added my own interpretation to her character, prayed its not too ooc, and called it a day <3


	5. Chapter 5

Komugi understood fear when she was eight. 

Back then all she’d known was the safety of the four corners of their room. And although the stairs didn’t give her the same sense of comfort, by the time that she knew how to walk she’d already learned how not to fall face down at the bottom of the steps. So even _that_ stopped scaring her. She had to, anyway. Because how else will she get to the kitchen, where it always smelled like pancakes and freshly opened blueberry jam; and beside that was the living room, where the softest couch in the world was, where she and mama and Hikaru would spend the entire day eating oranges while playing gungi. 

But, it wasn’t until mama told them, breathless in her excitement: “We’re opening a flower shop” that Komugi really learned how it is to be scared. After that, Komugi was sure that life as she knew it was coming to an end. 

Oh how the floorboards shook, scaring her to the point of wetting the bed, along with the growls of some angry animal that only stopped a few hours before supper. And the pounding against their walls, Komugi would never forget, as if someone with a large, iron fist battered on it until it knocked them down. 

The world was coming apart. At least, it _almost_ did. 

“It’s nothing, Komugi. Just the hammer. Feel this? Oh, careful! This is called a screwdriver. This one’s a drill—” 

One day, as she cried herself awake, mama gently carried her in her arms. She brought her down, in the early hours of the morning, guiding her small, shaking fingers to the heavy plastic and metallic tools that almost destroyed the world. 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. This is mama's fault," she whispered. And that had been the end of that.

She had never thought that it would come to this, at some point.

Komugi is now eleven when she remembers, truly _remembers,_ what fear feels like.

That odd pain in her stomach that makes her want to lie on the ground and not move. The way her heart can’t seem to decide whether it wants to just stop or run off her body. Her wobbly legs that are about to give out. It’s all making her sick. 

She wants to call out for her mama. 

But she’s not here.

 _Mama’s not here_.

“What did you do to him?!”

They are surrounding her.

“C’mon, just fess up and we won’t tell on you.”

They are closing in around her and she can’t breathe. They are everywhere and nowhere. Their voices go from one ear and to the other but she wants to speak she really does she wants to say no, no, _no I didn’t do anything I swear._

“I promise I didn’t- I really didn’t-”

She just wanted to go home. Mama told her to come back before lunch but she’s not home yet. What would mama think? What if she’s looking for her? What if she’s on her way right now? I didn’t do anything, mama, Komugi would tell her. 

“Liar!” This comes from her left.

She just wanted to go home. Just a few more walks, almost home, but they'd stopped her and they'd shouted at her and Komugi had no choice but to grip her cane to her chest.

"We saw him earlier! He was mad!" Blares by the one on her right.

"Yeah! And he didn't even wanna play with us anymore!" 

_Please let me go home._

"P-Please..!" Komugi just wants to pass through. "It's getting late!"

"You better say sorry to him when he gets back!"

_Please let me go home._

"If! If he gets back! Oh gosh what if he doesn't?!" 

_Please let me go home._

"This is all your fault! You probably cheated a lot and he hates cheate-"

_Please—_

"Let me go!" 

She doesn't know where that comes from, but she does know that it's been there, had been building up, in fact, growing stronger and louder inside her chest. Komugi has never done something like this before that, right now, she's not even sure if it's still her speaking, yelling like a mother cat protecting her litter.

"I said let me pass! I wanna go home! I wanna go _home_!" she pleads, throwing her cane around until the children surrounding her start shrieking.

"Run!" They yell. "Run! She's gone crazy!"

Just like that. 

Just like that and they're gone. 

Her cane clatters to the ground. Komugi is gasping, her chest heaving, as she desperately tries to catch her breath in between sobs. Tears joined by the hitch in her ragged throat. They're heavy, her eyelids, so heavy that she just can't help but to close them. She's so _tired_.

She wants to sleep here, with her bands loose from her hair as they stick to her neck. Right here in the middle of the street, Komugi decides. So she folds, sitting on bricks baked by the afternoon sun, embracing her knees and burying her face beneath them.

What did she do? What happened, really? Komugi already knew that this day wasn't all that she thought it'd be. It could have been, if she looks back on it, but she'd made a mistake earlier. When her gungi foe left upset (about what, who knows), Komugi understood right then and there it was really wrong of her for expecting so much from today. 

_What did she do_ , exactly, for this to happen to her now?

The answer, of course, wouldn't be found here, with her sniffling the day away. Komugi should stand, wipe away her tears and blow her nose, and go back home, as she'd intended. But she doesn't do any of that. She stays here, instead.

"Komugi," she hears someone say. "Stand up."

How cold, this voice. And mean, too. 

“Listen to me and _stand,_ ” he barks. Komugi doesn’t move— doesn’t want to, anyway. 

She supposes he’s already left, because she doesn’t hear more from him after she shook her head to his order, but she still feels him there. Who else could be shielding her from the heat of the sun? He speaks again, but much more softly this time.

“....Please,” he says. “Please look at me,” he repeats, sounding as if he said it with clenched teeth, as if he had a lot of trouble with the word. What an odd boy, Komugi thinks. What’s so hard with saying please? She does it all the time. 

But Komugi decides to raise her head now. 

He moves towards her, shoes lightly scraping, as she feels him closely. The boy crouches in front of her. He doesn’t speak for a while. “They did not hurt you?” Komugi hears him ask out of nowhere. She says, “No. They didn’t,” but Komugi wonders if he’d heard her. 

They don’t talk. For what else should be said, besides that she’d done something wrong? She doesn’t think that she wants to hear that now. But, mama always tells her to never forget her manners. Say thank you and please and sorry, she said. And she always, always does what mama tells her to do. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come before they leave her mouth. Komugi did not say that, she realizes. She’s not the one apologizing now. Though she should be, she _knows_ this. And yet—

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” 

The Monster Beast King holds her hand, just ever so lightly. 

“I’m so sorry.”

The boy helps her stand on her feet, and when Komugi flinches at the ache of having her knees curled for too long, she feels him brushing her back. And then— oh, and then, she’s crying again.

Because she _does_ feel hurt. How does he know? When she was left alone at the plaza with nothing but the silence screaming back at her, she thinks she’d felt hurt. Especially when she rearranged the gungi pieces herself and put them back into the box, hiding them from the world and keeping them in a tight lid. Now that he’d said it, Komugi can’t seem to stop herself from bawling.

“I shouldn’t have hurt my friend,” he tells her.

 _Friend_.

“Fr-friend?” She sniffs. 

Of course. Of course, they _are_ friends, aren’t they? 

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

Like a broken tap, water bursting out with no way of stopping it from flooding the house, Komugi lets herself cry. Because her friend doesn’t tell her hush, you’re a big girl, Komugi. Because she thinks she can cry. Because she thinks she _should._

“Wh-Why’d you go?! Why’d you- _hic_ \- I was searching every- _everywhere_ for you!” 

She doesn’t feel it, not until she’s stopped lightly jabbing his chest with closed fists, but he’s already wrapping his arms around her. It’s an embrace very unlike mama’s; he doesn't cocoon her in warmth nor does he sing her to sleep, but it’s soft and he smells like a bunch of lavenders, so she hugs him back. 

“You’re my friend, okay!” She tells him, unless he forgets, and she feels him nod. “You’re really, _really_ my friend!” He nods. And unless she, too, forgets, because she doesn’t think she’s ever had a friend besides mama and Hikaru, she says, “You’re my _first_ friend, okay!”

Komugi feels his lips tremble as he nods again. And she doesn’t know if it’s her sweat she’s feeling dripping onto her shoulder, but she hears him clear his throat before he says, “Yeah."

"You, too," he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl im ready to throw my hands at those kids


	6. Chapter 6

That hot chocolate had only been from a jar of cheap, powdered chocolate milk— nothing at all like the one their cook makes specifically to his taste, but he thought, nonetheless, that it’d been the best he’s had. 

Perhaps because drinking it had been such an experience. With a sobbing mother— who’d repeatedly thanked him for bringing her daughter home, and an idiotic son— who'd stood atop a small table as he professed his equally idiotic goal of protecting his sister from "this foul, ugly beast!”. With Komugi, who’d pulled on his sleeve to sit on the wooden floor, taking out a box that had a small gungi board and even smaller gungi pieces inside. 

They’d played until the sun began to set. 

At that time he was already about to finish his cup, whereas she’d let hers grow cold, too engrossed in the game to even notice that she'd spoiled the hot chocolate her mother made for them. She wasn’t the only one whose attention was elsewhere, however. For it took him a few seconds before he could make his move, too engrossed in watching his opponent— his _friend_ , bathe in warm, orange light. 

She'd won, as expected, but he knew that before it even started. 

* * *

“Are you not satisfied with the people at your dojo?” Pitou asked him. 

The traffic was bad, honks from impatient fools doing nothing to improve upon Pitou’s obviously bothered mood. A rarity, that one. The white noise coming from the radio slowly disappeared as Pitou told their driver to lower its volume.

He didn’t know where that question came from. They'd seemed like their normal, cool, unperturbed self back when they’d accompanied him to face a group of upset suburban mothers, who’d all hounded him after he'd brought Komugi home, preventing him from getting inside their car.

“How did you raise that boy?!” The tallest one yelled, grabbing her son by the arm. “Look! Look at how he attacked my child!” 

She ignored the sheepish look her precious son threw her way as he tried and failed to cover the barely there graze on his shoulder. 

“Well?” Pitou looked at him, not even addressing the presence of anyone other than their little brother. “What did you do?”

He sighed. How should he tell them, he wondered. How should he put all the details together in a way that they’d understand?

First: He was lost. 

Though not literally, for he already knew the alleys of this small, inconsequential town as soon as it’d caught his attention one autumn’s day. The same ones he’d decided to roam after storming off from the plaza, leaving the girl behind. For what? They’d ask him. Who knows, he’d say. Maybe he just wanted to pass the time. Maybe he just wanted to forget. 

Forget that he’s someone claiming to be more than he is, someone _amazing,_ as she’d called him. Forget that the one who’s _really_ amazing had the audacity to not believe in herself. And forget that the world is not fair; that it’d soon hail mere copper as a jewel if only it’d look the part. 

Second: He was lost. And the gang of kids who'd blocked him sure as hell weren’t the ones he was looking for. 

They cried in celebration at the sight of him. Telling him that they’d taken care of the blind girl. And when he’d asked what blind girl they’d told him, “She’s crazy! But she’s not gonna disturb you again! We made sure of that!” 

Third: He was angry. 

With the girl, for being the most talented and intelligent piece of nuisance he’s ever encountered. With the world, for not seeing her for who she is. With those kids, for hurting his Komugi that just the thought of what they did, whatever it was, had his body moving on its own.

In truth, he hadn’t really done anything to them. Because if he did they wouldn't just be here complaining about one slight scratch. Besides, it was just one boy. One boy who’d gotten in his way and just wouldn’t leave him alone. That one boy who’s now sporting a mild bruise after being pushed to ground.

So, instead of answering Pitou, he only said, “What about them? What did _you_ do to Komugi?”

Like a mob putting down their pitchforks, the women took their attention away from the two siblings and looked at their children, in disbelief and in desperate need for an explanation. “Komugi?” One woman gasped. “You mean- you silly boy! What did you do to Komugi?!”

What a farce that was, he thought back with a wry smirk. And, perhaps, Pitou had really been inconvenienced by it. Because they'd exchanged more than just one word with those people. A sign of its gravity; his eldest sibling never bothers with the trifles of those beneath them. 

(Except for that one time when one loud and very angry spiky haired teen invaded their house and demanded justice for his uncle.)

(“Kite is dying because of you!” He screamed as the siblings lounged at the patio, waking up Pouf and Youpi who'd slept with cream slathered on their faces and cucumber slices on their eyes.)

(Well, Pitou wouldn’t have owned up to it in the first place had the board of directors not begged them to please, please have mercy on the grad students and please, if you can, extend your deadlines.)

“Now that’s over with,” they said, giving the group a smile that comforted no one. “I think it is only basic decency to apologize to the one you’ve wronged.” 

The women expressed their regrets after that, and Pitou even went out of their way to give the mothers a piece of advice, from one guardian to another. "Treat your children's injuries first before attacking the perpetrator," they said, not dropping their smile. "They just might die from infection, you know. And then what use would this all be?"

So, he thought, what happened must have genuinely upset his eldest sibling. 

"Why do you ask, Pitou?" he faced them, intent on understanding what, exactly, managed to get on their nerves. 

"You keep coming back to that place," they explained. "Why?” They asked. “And not once have you benefited from it. Today it has only brought you annoyance."

Pitou continued. “I just want to know, is this because your other activities are no longer meeting your standards? Do you want to spar with me? Like before.” 

Ah. So that’s what it was. 

“I can take some time off work and-”

“ _Pitou_ ,” he said, silencing his sibling, as he looked back into the street. The tail lights of the cars outside flared every which way, blooming like illuminating rosebuds, similar to those displayed at the front of that shop.

“A child needs to play sometimes,” he told them. 

They didn’t say anything, not at first, letting the driver subtly tune the radio back in and distract herself from the strangely tense exchange between the two.

“Y-yes,” Pitou finally said. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

She doesn’t wait for him to sit down, unlike before. At his approach, Komugi is already perking up, leaving her cane beside the bench and welcoming him with her hand on his, dragging him to his place before her. The girl prattles on about that dream again. 

“Anyway,” she ends, “I think you’d understand it when we play!” 

The weather forecast for today warned them of a chilly morning and a windy afternoon, he thinks, as he eyes her hair and wonders for the reason behind the absence of her twin tails. Komugi’s hair is loose now, the length of it draping down her shoulders. A single, thick braid wraps the midsection of her head, keeping a smattering of chamomile flowers snugly in place. Like a crown, he muses. 

“Hey,” she calls out, giggling as she does. “You haven’t arranged your troops yet.”

He murmurs an apology, putting his pieces on the board and announcing the position of each, but the placement of her King halts him from beginning the game.

“Komugi,” he huffs. “If you’re going easy on me I won’t ever forgive you.”

What he would give to take a peek inside her mind; to know what in the world she’s thinking by using Kokoriko on him, when they both know that he can easily counter that with the move she’d also made herself. But, if by any chance that he’s correct, that she’s using it because he’s never once won against her and this is her language for mercy, he thinks he just might actually kill the girl today. 

“No, I would never do that,” she says, sounding irritatingly like an adult consoling a child out of his tantrum. “You’ll see,” she adds. And he doesn’t miss that excitement he hears in her voice.

She’s playing with him, eh? Well, he’d like to see where this one goes.

Then maybe she just might get a taste of her own medicine. He’s going to win and it wouldn’t even take him a few moves. He just needs one. 

“9-2-1 New Lieutenant General,” he announces. 

Komugi smiles, a wide, toothy thing that precedes fresh tears that fall down her cheeks.

“What- What is it now?” He asks in genuine confusion. She only wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve and says, “N-nothing! It’s just- can a- can a person be this happy?!” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy, see!” She cries, almost shrieking her heart out. “O-okay! I’m gonna make my move now!”

“Go ahead,” he says absently.

She sniffs. “4-2-1 Spy." 

And there it is. The king is dead. _His_ king.

“ _You keep coming back to that place,_ ” Pitou asked him. “ _Why?_ ” 

Indeed. Why did he keep coming back to this place? 

“That’s why!” The girl starts. “That’s why I think I’ve been having those dreams! I think they were telling me that I should meet you!” 

Something hurts in his chest. A knot that’s been twisted tightly is unraveling, uncoiling, and uncoiling that it’s almost painful. He thinks he's going to throw up or cough, maybe, at least. He exhales, keeping it at bay, but the sound of it is already leaving his mouth, making Komugi curl her brows in uncertainty and then, slowly, a smile. She's smiling at him.

Because he’s laughing. And she was right, he thinks. Can a person really be _this_ happy?

“Meruem,” he breathes, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s my name. It’s Meruem.”

 _Light_ , his siblings said. That was what it was supposed to mean. He feels doubt creep back in. It sounds wrong now, for him to say it like this, like the relief of it is making him feel like flying. It has _always_ sounded wrong.

Because he’s Monster; he’s Beast; he’s King.

And, he thinks, he’s also none of those.

Because when she stands up and hands him a flower that she pulled from her hair, as she says, “Nice to meet you, Meruem!”— _well,_ well he supposes his name has never sounded more right. 


End file.
